The Prisoner
by ladymacbeth99
Summary: AU in which Laufey never abandoned Loki as an infant (but was still anything but a good father). When Jotunheim wages war against Odin yet again, he takes the young prince back to Asgard as a political prisoner. An unlikely friendship forms between enemies. Rated T to be safe, there may be some violence in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Thor wasn't very stealthy, and he knew it.

His boots thudded loudly against the stone floor, echoing in the long corridor, but he did not know how to make his footfalls lighter. Several of the guards along the corridor raised their eyebrows suspiciously at the young prince, but did not abandon their posts.

He was skipping his swordsmanship lessons today. Tyr, his teacher, would notice Thor's absence very soon, and would probably send word to his father about his truancy, so there was no time for attempting secrecy. What the All-Father would do if he caught him here, Thor didn't know, but undoubtedly the palace dungeons were no place for a prince to wander.

Thor was not usually one to choose a dank underground hall over fresh air and sparring with his friends, but like everyone else in Asgard, he had heard the rumors. And his curiosity burned.

_The All-Father has brought a Frost Giant back as a prisoner. _

_Laufey's own son, they say. _

_Imagine one of those creatures, here! _

Indeed, Thor could not imagine it. He'd never seen a real one up close before, but he had dozens of storybooks that showed pictures of the barbaric creatures, mortal enemies to Asgard and civilization itself. They roamed the frigid wilderness of Jotunheim, on the very fringes of Yggdrasil, but whenever they ventured elsewhere, they left destruction and bloodshed in their wake. They would have entombed Midgard in ice if Father had not imprisoned their source of power centuries ago.

_They must be truly mad, to try and invade Midgard again without the Casket_, Thor wondered, shaking his head. And yet they were attempting it now. It was further proof that they delighted in devastation, however fruitless it might be.

_When I'm king_, he thought, eagerly reaching for his sword, _I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all, just like the heroes in the stories. Just like Father. _

He slashed his sword through the air, lopping the head off the imaginary giant leering before him. Excepting his fantasies, he couldn't yet go out searching for beasts to kill—he would have to content himself with catching a glimpse of a caged one.

_I'll look it straight in its red eyes without a hint of fear_, he thought; _I will make it dread me, the only son of its mortal enemy. Then everyone will know I am the Mighty Thor, Crown Prince of Asgard, fearless warrior… _

Or at least, he would be, as soon as he was old enough to change his wooden sword out with steel.

He walked slowly past the dungeon cells, both eager to look inside and anxious to appear unimpressed. The only light came from the flickering torches along the walls, and the dim gleam of the magic barriers walling in the prisoners. The cells were stark and bare, except for the golden sheen of magic that divided them. Each one held at least two prisoners, pacing or wandering or sleeping to pass the time.

This cell held a former guard convicted of taking bribes.

The next, a servant accused of treason, awaiting trial.

Another, a noble who had murdered his brother to obtain his title.

Thor held each of their gazes in turn with a smug smile as he sauntered past. No, he was not afraid of enemies—traitors, cowards, liars, common criminals all. But his steps slowed as he wondered about what he would see at the end of the hallway. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists around his practice sword's wooden hilt, hearing his pulse drumming in his ears; his blue eyes gleamed with excitement.

_Let the monster show itself, if it dares! I'm not afraid of it. Just wait until Sif hears the daring tale of my confrontation with a Frost Giant… _

He rounded the corner, prepared for anything and everything when—

He saw it.

Not the nine-foot monstrosity he expected. Not a giant whose laughter could shake mountains, or whose hands could crush Æsir bones into dust. Not the roaring, violent enemy that he could gloat over.

Sitting in the center of a lonely cell was a tiny figure dressed in black, its knees drawn up to its chest. Motionless. Smaller than Thor. Its limbs seemed fragile and childlike.

Thor froze, disconcerted. He would not have guessed at the creature's species if he had not seen its hands, sapphire blue and engraved with strange markings. It sat in a circle of ice that formed on the ground around him; whether the creature had made it consciously or not, Thor did not know. As he watched, it raised its head and met his eyes briefly. A chill ran through the young prince at the startlingly crimson stare: if it held any emotion, it was impossible to determine.

The creature dropped its eyes and bowed buried its face in its knees again, its shoulders hunched.

Thor wanted to say, _You are not supposed to be like this._ His disappointed expectations made him almost indignant, though he wasn't sure why. His wooden sword hung limply at his side.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed Thor's shoulder, making him jump.

"And just what precisely are you doing here, Thor?"

Thor gulped: the voice, though quiet and calm, still managed to ring with stoic authority. He looked guiltily up into his father's stern face.

"The dungeons are no place for a young prince," said Odin, pulling him along the corridor by the collar. Thor struggled to keep pace with his long strides.

"H-how did you know I was here, Father?"

It was a foolish question—what with Heimdall's watchful gaze, the king's scrying-glass, and guards listening in nearly every room of the palace, Odin could be relied upon to know essentially everything that went on in Asgard.

The only true surprise was that his father had searched for Thor himself, when the king had so much on his mind of late. He had returned to Asgard only a few days ago from Midgard, to bring back the prisoner and gather more forces, but the siege on the mortal realm raged on in his absence.

"I thought curiosity might tempt you here," the All-Father responded. "But there is no need to antagonize the poor creature."

"I wasn't baiting it!" Thor protested. "Honest! I just wanted to _see_ it."

"Yes, and that is why you took out your weapon," Odin responded dryly.

Odin's steps had slowed considerably now that Thor was following him obediently. They had reached the first level of the palace now, the corridor bathed in sunlight from the tall windows. It took Thor's eyes a few moments to adjust.

"And did the sight meet your expectations?"

Thor looked down at his boots, biting his lip. "It's so small. Why is it so small? I expected it to be gigantic, like the stories say," he pouted. His cheeks were still flushed with disappointment. "It's even smaller than I am."

"That is because he is even younger than you are," Odin said. "Although his size is unusual, it is not unheard of."

Thor laughed at the absurdity of a _little_ giant.

"Now," said his father, suddenly brisk, "as to your punishment."

Thor opened his mouth indignantly to argue, but Odin cut him off. His single eye scowled at him.

"You know full well that you are not allowed in the dungeons," he said firmly. "And complacency is not befitting behavior for a warrior. You will have no sparring sessions this week. Your spare time will be spent on your studies—which, truth be told, could see some improvement anyway."

Thor was outraged. "But _Father_—!"

Odin sighed wearily. "Victory must be accepted _gracefully_, Thor. There is no merit in reveling while your enemy lies helpless on the ground. Honor means affording dignity to a worthy adversary when they are defeated."

"But Father," Thor said with a snort, "the Frost Giants are not worthy opponents. They are cheaters and cowards! They would never show_ us_ any pity!"

"Nonetheless, my son, mercy can have its own reward."

Thor's brow furrowed in confusion; he had never heard his father talk like this before. Where was this coming from? He had expected his father to be angry at him for playing truant, but not for this.

"I don't understand," he admitted baldly.

"I know, my son."

Odin kept his hand on Thor's shoulder as they walked, seemingly without direction. He did not speak for a moment, and Thor itched to question him further, but—try though he might to deny it—he dreaded his father most when he was quiet and impassive, because he could not guess what he was thinking.

"This prisoner," said Odin finally, "is a son of Laufey. He may know things that could be of use."

Thor eyed him cautiously.

"But he will not speak to me," his father continued, "out of fear, I think. Every adult who has tried to assure him has failed. However…" He trailed off, looking at his son shrewdly. "He may be more inclined to speak to one his age. He might be less alarmed by another child."

Thor frowned. "Why are you telling me this, Father?"

"Because I want you to return tomorrow and try to get the prisoner to speak to you."

"_What?_"

Thor stood rooted to the spot, refusing to follow after Odin. This conversation had taken a sudden surreal turn, and he wanted an end to the word-games. First his father scolded him for going to see the Frost Giant, and now he wanted him to repeat the offense.

"You wish me to interrogate a prisoner?" Thor asked, scratching at his mop of golden hair.

"Not interrogate. I merely want you to converse with him," Odin clarified. But his voice and his gaze turned sharp as he added, "You are not to provoke him or frighten him. That will be counter-productive. He will only speak to you if he trusts you. So if you wish to help Asgard, you will treat him with _respect_, as the political prisoner that he is, and not as a common criminal. Is that clear?"

Thor's head was swimming. Talk to a Frost Giant? Treat it with respect? If his father were not so deadly serious most of the time—now his face held not a glimmer of warmth—Thor would have thought this was a joke, all an absurd, elaborate joke.

"Is that clear, my son?" Odin repeated.

"Yes, Father," he said, though his cheeks were flushed with bottled annoyance. Was his father forcing him to suffer this indignity to teach him some lesson?

"Good. Now I believe you have some studying to attend to? I shall inform Tyr that you will be absent from sparring lessons this week."

To Thor's dismay, he realized they had been walking towards the library, and were now at the polished double-doors. He groaned. As Odin turned to go back the way they had come, Thor stalled him.

"Wait, Father! You have not told me what you wished to find out from the prisoner," he said. "What should I ask it—him?"

He felt a little panicked at being left to this task so unprepared.

"Do not fret about that, Thor. Just get him talking, and report back to me whatever he says." He put a hand on his son's head reassuringly, hesitating before adding, "I do not think it wise to inform your mother of this task. I am not asking you to lie to her, but if she does not ask, you need not tell her."

Thor nodded.

*******Author's Note:** Just to clarify, in this story, Thor is meant to be about nine years old, or whatever the Asgardian equivalent is, and Loki is seven. Don't worry, I will explain a little more about what's going on with Jotunheim and Midgard in the next chapter, but it didn't seem to fit with this chapter.

This is my first stab at a multi-chapter fic, so any suggestions and helpful criticism is appreciated. As I am a college student, I sadly cannot promise really frequent updates, but I swear I will try my best. (Trust me, I'd rather be writing fanfiction than essays!) I have a general plan of where this story is going, but still a little uncertain on the ending, so please be patient with me. I'm not very experienced with this.

Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

******Author's Note:** Thank you so much, everyone who has followed and favorited already, and especially for the kind reviews! I'm glad people are interested; it's very encouraging. I really hope this chapter does not disappoint.

I know I said updates might not be frequent, but I already had most of this chapter written when I posted the first, so I figured I might as well get the next one out while I had the time. We actually get to see some Loki for more than five seconds, yay! Don't worry, we'll get more of his perspective later on.

The first section of this chapter is a little flashback, just so no one's confused. ;)

* * *

_The stench of battle loomed heavy over Midgard. The street was quiet in the aftermath, save the muffled footsteps of horses and soldiers looking for survivors. Odin pulled his cloak more tightly around his broad shoulders and glanced up at the twilit sky, fouled by smoke from the siege. Ravens were already descending on the discarded corpses. _

_The All-Father had managed to recapture this Jotun-held city, but not without heavy casualties for Asgard. It was madness indeed that Jotunheim was attempting any offensive maneuvers, so soon after their last great defeat, with their own realm in shambles. Even more astounding was that they had managed to take a small region of Midgard without the aid of the Casket of Ancient Winters; perhaps it helped that natural winter lay upon this realm at the moment. _

_He might have been impressed by Laufey's tenacity (or desperation), were his heart not so heavy from loss. _

_"We caught this one hiding in a stable, All-Father," said one of the officers. He was dragging a small, limp figure, which was barely able to keep itself upright. "There are markings on its face that denote royal blood. Shall we kill it quickly, or—?" _

_The captive was tiny for a giant's spawn, the size of an Æsir child—with its blue skin hidden beneath its tattered cloak, Odin could have mistaken him for one. _

_"Bring him to me," he ordered. _

_The child struggled feebly against the rough hands that pushed him forward and thrust the hood of his cloak back. He whimpered softly as if in pain. Odin stared into the prince of Jotunheim's face. Despite the unfamiliarity of its scarlet eyes and sapphire skin, etched with peculiar runes, he was clearly a child. His small frame trembled violently. He was gritting his teeth against the pain of his injuries, or perhaps to mask his terror—striving to appear brave. _

_The gesture reminded him uncannily of Thor. _

_The All-father shook himself. No, this creature was nothing like his own son—how could his mind have even leapt there?_

_"What are your orders, my king?" _

_Odin's gaze swept over the sacked village, the broken corpses, the angry splashes of red against the snow. So much blood had been spilt today; he was weary of it. Perhaps if he could spare just one harmless creature, he could lift some of the heavy weight from his shoulders. _

_"Is he injured?" Odin asked. The soldiers replied in the affirmative. He had taken a stray arrow to the shoulder. "Set him down," said the king. _

_The captive was hardly a threat to them. When the soldiers released their grip on the Jotun child, his knees buckled without their support. He was clearly dizzy and weak with blood loss, shivering with pain. _

_Odin looked his young enemy in the eye. "Do you know who I am, child?" _

_To his surprise, the boy snorted softly. The ghost of a smirk flickered across his face. _

_"Yes," he replied. "My father took your eye when last you met in battle." _

_Ah. A son of Laufey. How very interesting. _

If my own son were captured in war, I would sacrifice much to save him,_ Odin thought. _And now this gift has fallen right into my lap. The Norns have smiled upon me, it seems…

_Odin called to his officers to bind the child's hands—wounded or not, he might still escape—and bring him along as they returned to Asgard._

* * *

Just as Father had commanded, Thor returned to the dungeons the next day, to see if he could get the prisoner to speak. The miniature Frost Giant was sitting in the very same position as before inside a circle of ice, immovable as a statue, knees drawn up to his chest protectively.

Thor stood fidgeting for a several minutes, debating about whether to sit or stand. His palms were sweating. What was he supposed to say? What did his father even want him to accomplish?

Odin had said that he was to treat the prisoner with respect, even though Thor knew it did not deserve it—advice that the prince had been turning over in his mind all night, trying to understand. Eventually, he had concluded that his father was encouraging magnanimous behavior because that would prove Asgardians more civilized, more honorable.

So that was exactly what Thor intended to do.

It bothered Thor that the captive seemed oblivious to his presence, hadn't even reacted to his entrance, so he cleared his throat awkwardly.

The prisoner moved for the first time—still displaying no emotion, but raising his head to study the prince of Asgard.

"My father asked me to speak with you," Thor explained finally, shrugging. "I really don't know why. He did not tell me what he wanted to know."

Thor wished he could decipher the prisoner's reactions, but the blue features and eerie red eyes were so disconcerting to him that he couldn't see past them to their expression. His utter unresponsiveness vexed Thor. Why did he not _do_ something, say something, spit insults at his captors, anything?

"Um…" Thor searched for a question that might spur a reaction from him. "Will you tell me your name?"

Silence. The prisoner did not look at him. He was studying his hands.

"My name is Thor. I am—"

"I know who you are, Odinson."

His voice was quiet but clear, and held no emotion. Its delicate timbre startled Thor—he had expected a rumbling, harsh voice, despite the Jotun's size.

"So you _do_ speak," Thor said smugly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, Laufeyson? Will you tell me your first name, now that you know mine?"

He could not be sure, but he thought he saw the prince of Jotunheim flinch at the mention of his surname.

"Why do you bother, Son of Odin? If my life is forfeit, surely it makes no difference." His voice was weary, for a child's.

_He speaks so fluently_, Thor marveled. _I wonder why. I would have expected giants to grunt and use small words._ All of the stories painted the creatures as brutish and unintelligent.

"Why…" Thor hesitated. But he was too curious, and now that he had gotten the prince to speak, he would seize the opportunity. "Why are you so small? I thought Frost Giants would be…well…giant."

The prisoner swallowed hard and his crimson eyes widened. Was that fear Thor recognized in his face?

"I don't know," he said simply. Thor wanted to press further, but was not sure how.

After a moment, the prisoner asked quietly, "Why do you keep me here? Why have you not killed me yet? What is your father waiting for?"

Thor stepped back. "It is dishonorable to harm helpless things, he says."

The prince of Jotunheim snorted softly. His lips turned up into what Thor could only guess was a smirk. "What a pretty sentiment. Yes, I am sure the All-Father was simply overcome with pity for me, the spawn of his sworn enemy. More likely, he enjoys watching me wait and fret over my fate."

"Do not speak of my father this way!" Thor growled, flushing with indignation. "He is a great and noble king."

"Am I unjust?" He raised his eyebrows. "Surely he could have no motive to keep me alive, unless he plans to torture me. Pure altruism and kingship cannot coexist."

Thor could hear his pulse hammering in his ears—how dare he make such groundless accusations against the All-Father? He struggled to keep his breathing steady, and might have hit the cell wall in anger, were he not aware that the magical boundary would burn his hand.

"He did not have to spare your life, creature," Thor said through clenched teeth. "You should be grateful my father is so merciful!"

The Jotun looked at him silently for a moment.

"I am not going to give you all the satisfaction of begging for my life," he said flatly. "But if you mean to slay me, would you please just do it quickly? It's the waiting that I cannot bear."

This statement was all very matter-of-fact; perhaps deceptively so, for even Thor noticed his voice crack halfway through it, and the way the prince hugged his knees even more tightly, as if hoping to disappear. The patch of frost on the floor around him crept forward a few inches. His face might be alien, but the body language was surprisingly recognizable.

And it occurred to him, for the first time—_he is even younger than I am. He must be…frightened. _

Just a day before, the thought might have made Thor gleeful. Enemies of Asgard should be afraid. He would have enjoyed taunting the creature for sport, like poking at a snake with a stick. So why did his insides suddenly feel all knotted up, as if in guilt?

"No one is going to kill you or hurt you." The words fell out of Thor's mouth before he even decided to speak them. "I promise."

Red eyes glared at him disbelievingly.

"Truly," he assured him.

The suspicion lingered in his silence, but the prisoner relaxed his frigid posture some—that, at least, Thor could read as encouraging, even if his face was as inscrutable as ever.

_Honesty will gain his trust_, Thor decided. "You are a political prisoner, not a common criminal," Thor explained, echoing his father's earlier words. "That means the All-Father expects to make a bargain for your freedom with the King of Jotunheim—to use you as leverage. That is all."

Laufeyson blinked. Then, to Thor's immense shock, he began to laugh—a high, cold, mirthless laugh that made Thor shiver. It sounded unnatural coming from one so young.

"You expect my father to bargain for my freedom? You think my father will come to save me?" He shook his head, still laughing. "Your king has made the wrong gamble, Odinson."

Thor's brow furrowed. "Surely he will rescue you," he mumbled uneasily.

The disquieting laughter died. The son of Laufey curled up into a ball again.

"He will not come for me," he said in a hollow voice.

Thor could not think of a reply. He felt very cold. _The Jotuns must be barbarians indeed, if he is so convinced his father would abandon him,_ he told himself. _Their family bonds must be weaker than ours._ Yet, inexplicably, the sight of the little prisoner, arms wrapped around himself in poorly disguised distress, made Thor want to approach the cell.

"You will be safe here, and then you will go home, Laufeyson. I promise."

He did not know why it mattered to him so much, to ease the hostage's fears. Perhaps the prisoner's low opinion of Asgard wounded Thor's pride, and he wished to restore his realm's honor. _They_, after all, were not the monsters. _They_ had a sense of decency that clearly befuddled the Jotuns.

The blue features twitched briefly into a smile. "I do not think you have the power to make that promise, Thor Odinson."

Feeling the conversation was at its close, Thor awkwardly turned to leave, saying, "I will come again tomorrow, Laufeyson." He did not know if he had obtained the information his father was after, but it seemed likely that he would be sent here again.

The prisoner cleared his throat hesitantly.

"Loki."

Thor wheeled back to face the cell. "What?"

"My name is Loki," he said.

Thor nodded once. "I will come again tomorrow, Loki."

* * *

The prince of Asgard had already disappeared down the hall before Loki murmured, almost under his breath, "Until then, Thor."

It was silly and stupid to look forward to a visit from his enemy, for the inane conversation of a spoiled prince whose devotion to his father was blind, who would surely do nothing but gloat and mock—yet it was something to break up the monotony. He was not afraid, he told himself, merely bored.

The lie was a feeble one.

It had been easy to address the King of Asgard with quiet contempt, to pretend he did not feel his whole body trembling with terror, when he had thought death imminent—at least it would probably be quick and painless—but once his fate became no longer so clear, Loki had been unable to speak to any adult, or even make eye contact. Healers had closed the wound on his shoulder before bringing him here to this cell. What if this meant his captors wanted him whole before they killed him slowly?

In his mind, he could almost hear his father's deep voice, filled with its usual disdain: _Compose yourself. It is the Æsir who wear their emotions so proudly; a proper Jotun keeps a stoic appearance, especially before their enemies._

Loki's lips twitched. His father's assessment was right, if his brief encounter with Thor was an illustrative example. Thor was certainly one to be emotionally transparent. Quick outbursts of emotion, without any sort of filter or attempt at subterfuge. _No one is going to hurt you_, he had promised, and Loki could find no lie in his face. He didn't think the brash prince was capable of convincingly deceiving.

_All that proves is that _Thor_ does not think anyone will hurt you_, Loki reminded himself quickly. _It does not prove that no one will._

And yet...the prince of Asgard, as thick and exasperating as he might be, had a strangely comforting presence—but surely that was only because annoyance was a blissfully distracting emotion. The smirk slid off Loki's face.

Now that he was alone again, the dungeon seemed even quieter and emptier than it had before Thor had visited.

_Do not show fear, do not give them the satisfaction, do not cry, do not cry, do not cry…_

Loki buried his face in his knees, choking in misery, biting his tongue until he tasted blood with the effort of holding back his tears.

_No one is coming for you._


	3. Chapter 3

****Author's Note: **Please forgive the long wait and the short chapter. This one was inexplicably difficult for me to write. I promise Chapter 4 (which I will post shortly) is much longer.

Thank you, thank you, THANK you for the kind reviews, follows, and favorites! Special thanks to the wonderful Sauron Gorthaur for the lovely analysis. :) You don't know how much it means to me. I really hope the story continues not to disappoint.

p.s. Though this story is meant to be based in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, there are many things, especially about the other realms, that are not explained in the movies, so I'll be taking little bits and pieces from mythology and what I know of the comics, but might not be strictly accurate to either of those. I hope that makes sense? Anyway, thanks for reading.

* * *

"All-Father, we have urgent news to report from the battle-front."

Odin looked up at the intruder in his study, an Einherjar warrior clearly fresh from battle, his armor dented and spattered with mud, who was now bowing in apology for having burst eagerly into the room. His face was uneasy.

"What news?" he asked. Few dared disturb the All-Father's solitude in this room, as he sat hunched over maps and half-finished battle plans—even Frigga left him alone to his thoughts when he retreated here—so the messenger's news must be urgent.

In reply, he set a heap of metal on the table before him: a helmet and a double-sided battleax, filthy with dried blood. They were not too remarkable in their own right, beyond the craftsmanship—but Odin recognized the engravings on them.

"This is dwarf-wrought iron," he observed. "Where did you find these?"

"In the Midgardian city we recaptured, my king, after the battle. We found many others like them on our slain enemies."

At least Jotunheim's small victories were no longer entirely inexplicable: they were receiving aid from another realm. How far that aid extended, however, remained to be seen.

"But there has been no sign of dwarf troops?" he ascertained.

"No, my king. Still, these weapons…"

Indeed, this was troubling. Relations between Nidavellir and Jotunheim had never been friendly. To the contrary, the giants' mistrust towards the dwarves went back almost as long as their friction with the Æsir. And the dwarves kept mostly to themselves, rarely venturing out of their mines and underground cities, self-sufficient and mostly indifferent to the concerns of the other eight realms.

_What could Laufey have to offer them for their assistance?_ Odin pondered, his brow crumpling in frustration. He could not shake the feeling that the answer was already plainly before him, though he could not see it. _What is there to be gained from taking Midgard? What are you_ after, _Laufey? _

Odin dismissed the soldiers with a gesture, too absorbed in his thoughts to spare words for them.

This revelation changed everything, and nothing. That two rogue realms would ally themselves against Asgard—it was unprecedented. Was their mutual resentment toward the Æsir enough to unite the dwarves and the Jotuns? Why now, and not during the first Jotun War? Neither Jotunheim nor Nidavellir was particularly strong in its own right, and even combined could hardly present a catastrophic threat to the universe, but the divisions in Yggdrasil would fester and spread if order was not restored quickly.

In his abstraction, Odin's gaze drifted to the darkened window. Night had fallen over Asgard. The city, radiant gold in daylight, was dimmed and softened by starlight. Though the thirst for exploration and conquest was in his blood, he was always glad to return to his realm. On Midgard, the constellations were not the same, not as bright, not as close. He did prefer that realm to Jotunheim, he mused, where the stars could rarely be seen at all.

He had visited Laufey's son in the dungeons earlier that evening. The boy would not say a word to him, refused to even look at him. Though the All-Father's questions had been posed as gently and nonthreateningly as possible—will you tell me your name, what brought you to Midgard, do you know what your father is doing there, are you still frightened of me?—the foreign prince studied the floor of his cell with a blank expression. It did not take long for Odin to realize questioning him was futile. It was as though he had regressed from the day of his capture.

He suppressed a chuckle, remembering the boy's impertinent remark when they had first met. Now, he thought with a disappointed sigh, the prince seemed _more_ afraid.

"Guards," he said at last. "Bring my son here. I must have a word with him."

Ordinarily, it would have taken hours to locate the energetic crown prince and drag him inside to his father. But because of his current punishment, there were far fewer places to search. Thor was standing in his study mere minutes later with a cross expression.

"Have you done as I asked you, Thor?" Odin asked, choosing to ignore the way his son was frowning. He knew Thor was pouting about being cooped up in the palace—his friends Sif, Fandral, and Hogun had probably not helped matters—but Odin did not plan to negotiate.

"Yes, I talked to the Frost Giant, just as you wanted."

"And did he speak to you?" Thor nodded.

"He said his name is Loki."

"Ah," said the All-Father. It was just as he had suspected; the less threatening figure of a child his age was more successful in comforting and coaxing. "So you have made more progress than I. Did he say anything else to you?"

Thor bit his lip. His frown became more troubled than sullen as scuffed his boots restlessly against the floor. "He said…he did not think his father would bargain with you. He does not expect Laufey to come for him." He looked up at Odin, confusion in his eyes. "He thinks that we are planning to kill him. He would not believe me when I said we would not."

Odin carefully controlled his response to this information; he simply filed it away to consider later.

"You did well, Thor," he assured him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "But you must go again tomorrow. This is very important: you must keep speaking with Loki, and encourage Loki to speak with you. Anything he says might prove useful."

"Yes, Father," Thor grumbled.

Odin raised an eyebrow. "Was it truly such a chore to be civil with Loki?"

Thor fidgeted for a moment. "He is very...He spoke rudely about you. But I defended your honor, Father," he added quickly.

Odin's lips twitched with amusement, but he could not deny the small swell of relief hearing that Prince Loki was not utterly lost to his fear after all.

"I would not have expected anything different," Odin said. "Tell me, Thor, if you had been imprisoned on Jotunheim by Laufey, how would you respond?"

Thor's brow furrowed. "Well, that has not happened. How could I know?"

Odin sighed. His son had imagination enough for his age, but could not consider hypothetical situations very well without putting in a great amount of effort, which he rarely desired to do. The here and now tended to consume him.

"I must return to Midgard the day after next," Odin said, returning to the point. "The war there rages on still. But I will send Huginn or Muninn to Asgard every day, and they can report back to me anything you may learn from the prisoner. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Father."

"Now off to bed with you, before your mother finds you still awake," Odin said with a small smile. "Tomorrow you have important work to do."

Thor grinned, chest swelling with pride at being entrusted with an important task for his father. He was an uncanny mirror-image of Odin himself at that age, when he had hero-worshiped his own father, Bor, and yearned to be just like him. He smoothed Thor's thick golden hair off his forehead—the same color Odin's had once been, so long ago—before the impetuous prince bounded out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Loki awoke with a start, coughing and choking, as if a colossal hand had suddenly released its stranglehold around his throat. He lay still, concentrating on making his breaths come slow and deep. Where was he? Why was he so uncomfortably warm that his face was beaded with sweat?

Eventually his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he had shaken off sleep enough to remember.

_Of course. Asgard, you imbecile. Do you not recollect the last two days? _

The realization was far from pleasant, but his first reaction was frustration. Even in this place, even after being captured by his enemies and locked away in an underground vault, the familiar bad dreams had followed him here from Jotunheim. One would think that at least these experiences in waking life ought to give his night terrors some more variety—but no.

He never could remember more than snatches of them after waking—mere sensations, without any import—of being afraid and unable to breathe. Just nightmares, no basis in reality, no meaning that Loki could unravel. Yet for years they had plagued him relentlessly.

He sat up, and to his surprise a linen blanket fell off him; someone must have draped it over him while he slept, for it had not been there before. It was a thin material, but still too warm for him in this inhospitably stuffy climate. Were they trying to be kind, he wondered, or trying to make him suffer more?

Pressing his palm to the floor, he created a ring of ice, as if to protect himself. It provided some physical relief, but it reminded him of his dream—he remembered now there had been snow swirling hatefully around him, and his vision fading away as if he were losing consciousness as he choked and struggled to breathe—

_Stop crying!_ He reprimanded himself, hating his own weakness. _Stop shaking! It was only a silly dream and it means nothing. If Father were here, he would despise you for being afraid of nightmares that you can barely remember. _

But reality was not much better. He longed for morning to come. (Or perhaps it was already day. The time was impossible to determine in this underground vault.) Mostly, he longed for some noise, some distraction from his own thoughts. Even the gruff presence of the guards bringing him food was preferable to complete emptiness—because Loki's imagination would always fill in the unknown with grotesque chimeras, no matter how much he willed himself to be rational.

_Nowhere is safe. Not Jotunheim, not Asgard, not Midgard. Nowhere to go… _

He bit down hard on his lip to keep himself from sobbing aloud, lest the guards should hear him. But holding it in was like putting a cork on a bottle of ale and shaking it up—the pressure only built and built, until he thought he would be sick with it.

The last time he had cried like this was his last naming-day, several months ago on Jotunheim. He always dreaded that day, because it made Laufey's barely-suppressed resentment resurface, and yet it was impossible to avoid his presence completely.

(_Why should I celebrate the day you killed your mother, Loki? If you ever need a reminder that the Norns have a cruel sense of irony, just remember that a great queen died giving life to a pitiful, useless runt._)

Presently, realms away, in the hands of his enemies, he comforted himself the same way he did then. In his mind, he retreated to the one place of solace he truly had—he clung to it, though it was but the faintest wisp of a memory. A memory of kind eyes, looking at him without loathing. Being held. Rocked to sleep.

_ It is absurd and childish to believe you remember anything of your mother_, he often told himself the morning after, once he was removed from the nightmares and the creeping shadows and the feelings of dread. _This is not really a memory; no one remembers their infancy. She died before you were a day old_.

Most likely, his mind had manufactured this false reminiscence, constructed an image of whatever he thought a mother should be based on the various nursemaids who had cared for him instead. He knew it was foolish, but he needed desperately to retreat into the arms of this sweet delusion, this phantom memory; it was his only relief.

He did not fall back asleep, but managed to quiet his sobs after a few hours. By the time the guard stopped by his cell to shove a hunk of bread and a mug of cheap ale at him, Loki had composed himself.

* * *

Thor kept his word and came to visit Loki in the morning.

The prince of Asgard sat himself cross-legged on the floor in front of Loki's cell. When Loki had first come into contact with the Æsir, he had found them difficult to tell apart—all of them had white eyes and soft pink flesh—but now, upon further study, he wondered how he could ever have thought them so indistinguishable.

Thor sat closer this time, and so Loki was able to note small details about the prince that he had not before: the faint freckles sprinkled across his nose, the small gap between his two front teeth, the way his knees bounced like he was always ready to spring into action. His eyes, wide and expectant, were pale blue, like ice—no, too warm to be ice, Loki amended; they more resembled Asgard's sky on a cloudless day, like the one he had glimpsed before being locked in this cell.

"What brings you here again, son of Odin?" Loki asked, in as withering a tone as he could manage: he couldn't have Thor knowing how impatient he'd been for his return. Irritation was so much more comfortable an emotion than fear.

Thor shrugged. "I thought you might be bored," he said simply.

"And my entertainment is your ultimate concern, I'm sure." Loki gave him a piercing stare.

Thor's ruddy face grew pinker; he cracked easily under Loki's scrutiny. _Curious_, Loki thought, _the way the Æsir respond to embarrassment or anger by becoming even warmer_.

"My father wants me to keep talking to you. And I was bored, too," Thor admitted, fiddling with the hem of his red tunic. "He won't let me outside for my sparring lessons, so…it was either here or the library." He scrunched up his nose at the last phrase, as if disgusted at the idea of books.

But Loki sat up straighter. "You have a library here?" he asked, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.

"Of course we have a library here," Thor frowned, looking disgruntled. "Do you read? I didn't think Frost Giants had books."

Now it was Loki's turn to be annoyed. "You think very little of our intelligence, don't you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "That seems highly hypocritical on _your_ part."

"No, you've made your superiority very clear," Thor retorted, scowling. "You have an awful lot of scorn for a _monster_."

Loki's eyes narrowed. "And you're rather arrogant for a warrior that can't even lift a proper sword yet," he snapped.

Loki had a talent for devising insults without needing to give them much thought—he knew all too well that the right words could cut as keenly as a knife's edge-which was just as well, because his mind was still slowly turning over Thor's last sentence, ignoring his sputters of outrage. Monster. _Monster_. He had never thought of himself as a monster before. Yet Thor's tone dripped animosity; clearly he meant the epithet.

Monster. Not merely an enemy to be defeated, but an inferior being.

A voice in his head, deep and cold as if it came from the depths of a cavern, whispered, _Is that not what I have told you all along? Even the Asgardians are not blind to your deficiencies. _

He shivered, trying to shake away the horribly familiar voice—the one he knew was only in his mind and yet was surely what Father _would_ say, were he here—and bring himself back to the conversation at hand. Thor was speaking again, oblivious to his abstraction.

"My father wouldn't want me to be fighting with you," Thor grumbled. His face was still red, and he spoke through gritted teeth, as if it were painful for him to obey this order. "He said…he said not to provoke an enemy when they are defenseless."

Loki bristled at this description of himself, but could not immediately come up with an acerbic response.

"Then what are you going to do, Asgardian?" he asked coldly. "If not entertain yourself by taunting me, I mean."

"I don't know. Maybe I'll just go upstairs to the library," Thor said, crossing his arms sullenly.

"Do whatever you please. It makes no difference to me."

"Alright then, I will!"

The prince of Asgard turned on his heel and stomped off towards the exit, slamming the heavy wooden door on his way out with a resounding clang. It echoed all the way down the hall.

_Well done, Loki_, he thought to himself sarcastically, _now you have alienated your only possible ally here, the only one who has made you less miserable. Brilliant, simply a brilliant plan— _

To Loki's immense surprise, the door cracked open a few inches, and Thor's head reappeared in the gap to look back at Loki.

"Do…do you want me to bring some books back for you?"

Loki was startled to hear hesitancy in his voice, as if Thor regretted his stormy departure. It seemed that the older prince's anger was not unlike a strike of lightning: sudden, hot, and brief, burning out almost as soon as it was expressed. Loki swallowed hard, and nodded.

"I'll be back later, then," Thor said, and left, shutting the door more softly this time.

* * *

Thor kicked over a wooden stool, and it clattered loudly into the bookshelf behind it. The scholars sitting at a nearby table glared at him reprovingly for the disturbance, but he did not care; he needed to vent his frustration somehow, and the stuffy presence of all these books only exacerbated it. Something about the _silence_ of books made him resent them—how they could not simply tell Thor what he needed to know, but had to be ambiguous and flowery and force him to search for meaning until his head swam with impatience.

He shouldn't have said that to Loki. It was exactly what his father had told him not to do. He was not certain what had aroused his temper, made him say "monster."

_If he wasn't so calculating and unnerving_, _I wouldn't have said that_, Thor thought. _If he didn't act like he was above me while sitting in a prison cell! _

If Father found out about their exchange, he might extend Thor's punishment, and he could not bear another week of this confinement. When he saw Sif and Fandral at dinner tonight, he knew they would regale him with stories about today's lessons, and their cheeks would still be flushed with excitement and exercise—while he sulked and asked Hogun to help him with his rune translations. He itched to stretch his legs properly, to breathe in the fresh air and destroy something.

_I must do as Father says_. Then, with a sudden burst of hope, he thought, _Perhaps if I do especially well, he will lift my punishment early! _

This thought spurred him into action. He scanned through the shelves and extracted several leather-bound tomes that looked exceptionally dull. He did not know what a Frost Giant would like to read, but then again, he could not see the appeal of the activity at all. If one wanted a thrilling tale, listening to a skald tell a saga at a banquet seemed far more entertaining. A book could not speak, after all.

He gathered up as many volumes as he could carry, and scampered out of the palace library. He almost tripped over a stair as he descended to the dungeons once more, unable to see over his stack.

_At least one of these ought to satisfy him_, Thor supposed. _And Father will see that I am being the honorable one_. However…if he were being truly honest with himself, getting back into his father's good graces was not his sole motivator.

With a twinge of regret, he tried to force away the memory of Loki's face after being called a monster.

_But he_ is, _he is the monster of legends, the kind of creature the hero always slays in the stories. It matters not whether he is a miniature one_.

So why did he feel that prickling feeling in his throat, like guilt? Why did his cheeks burn with shame? He tried to only imagine the crimson eyes and blue skin—features so unlike his own—and not the flicker of anguish in their expression. It had lasted but a moment, and had soon been replaced with cold reserve, which had made it easier for Thor's temper to boil up again. But in that instant, Loki had looked so helpless. Thor did not want to see that look again; he wanted to banish it forever.

And so he took a stack of books to him.

He threw them all down at his feet as soon as he stood in front of Loki's cell once more, his arms aching from carrying them all this way.

"I didn't know what you would like," Thor said, "so I brought as many as I could carry."

He smiled proudly at just how many books that signified. Loki had actually stood up upon Thor's reentrance as if in excitement, his red eyes wide. Thor noticed that the Jotun prince stood at least a head shorter than him, and was very thin. And if Thor was not mistaken, his lips had curved briefly into a smile: not a smirk, but a genuine smile.

They stared at the heap of papers for a moment. It seemed to occur to them simultaneously that, thanks to the magical barrier of Loki's prison cell, Thor would not be able to hand him anything. A door could be created by a special key the guards carried, but Thor did not think luxuries like books were allowed for the prisoners.

"So…it seems we overlooked something crucial," Loki said dryly. His eyes had dulled again. Thor's shoulders slumped. His good deed had come to naught.

It hurt to see the littler prince become so animated at the sight of the books, and now deflate completely. He yearned to bring the brightness back into his eyes. The Jotun looked less strange, more familiar, when he wore that expression.

"Wait," Thor said, perking up. "I could read to you." Loki raised an eyebrow skeptically.

Acts of kindness were clearly foreign to the Jotun prince, thought Thor, who began to see an opportunity to better fulfill his father's task.

"If I read one story to you today," said Thor slowly, "will you answer a question for me?"

Loki's red eyes narrowed. "What do you wish to know? Are you hoping I will reveal any secret plans of my father's?"

Thor shrugged. "I want to know how you came to be on Midgard."

Loki blinked a few times, as if he had not expected that question. Evidently, he comprehended reciprocity better than benevolence, for he said after a moment, with haughty reluctance, "Very well. I will accept your bargain."

But Thor caught a glimpse of a smile.

Picking up a tome at random, he sat on the dungeon floor and began to read aloud. "'Part One: The Life and Death of Scyld. Lo! the Spear-Danes' glory through splendid achievements the folk-kings' former fame we have heard of, how princes displayed then their prowess-in-battle…"*

It was an epic tale from Midgard, about a hero who slays a monster that was terrorizing a small kingdom. Thor had heard it told at banquets many times before. But it was evidently new to Loki, who listened intently with his head cocked to one side. Occasionally he corrected Thor's pronunciation, or rolled his eyes when he stumbled over big words, a habit that Thor found irritating, but otherwise he sat very still and seemed absorbed. When they reached Thor's favorite part—when the hero tears the monster's arm off—Loki winced visibly.

Finally, the saga concluded with the hero's funeral pyre burning into the sky. Thor shut the tome with a satisfied sigh.

"That was a very sad tale," Loki said quietly.

"Sad?" Thor scoffed. "How was it sad?"

"The hero dies at the end. He won all that wealth for his people but never had the chance to see them prosper from it."

"He died a glorious death in battle," Thor insisted, "with honor."

Thor had already fantasized about his own memorable demise, hopefully involving several venomous lindwyrms, a ferocious dragon, a herd of rampaging bilgesnipes, and an army of Fire Giants. This epic battle would take place after he had ruled Asgard wisely for thousands of years, and had energy in him for one last adventure. Of course, he would need to die slowly enough to give a dramatic dying speech and bid tearful farewells to his friends.

"That means he went to Valhalla," Thor continued.

Loki frowned. "Valhalla?"

Thor barked with laughter. "Do you mean the Frost Giants do not even know of Valhalla? The splendid feasting-hall where brave warriors are rewarded after death?"

_The Jotuns must not think about anything beyond their physical needs_, Thor speculated. _But to never have even heard of Valhalla! _

"Only the warriors?" Loki asked. "What becomes of the others?"

Thor paused. "Well, they go to Helheim, I suppose," he said uncomfortably. He did not like thinking about that.

"And what is Helheim?"

"It is dark and misty," he shrugged. "It's located somewhere deep in Niflheim. It isn't as though many have returned to tell stories of it."

Loki shook his head. "It still seems a tragic ending, to die at the moment of victory."

"At least he died with his companion at his side," said Thor. "If I have to die, I want my brother-in-arms with me."

As he had reread the saga, it occurred to Thor that part of the fantasy was missing: he needed a stalwart companion with him to the end, like all the heroes did. Someone to hold him in his dying moments, to kiss his brow and send him off to Valhalla in a longship, to wear his vambraces in remembrance. _Fandral and Hogun would do all that_, he assured himself. _The heroes in the stories usually only have one best friend, but I have several. I suppose I'm luckier_.

He satisfied himself with the mental image of Sif weeping over his funeral pyre and vowing to avenge him.

"Is that a common sentiment on Asgard?" the Jotun prince asked, his head cocked to the side in innocent curiosity.

"Yes, it—wait a moment." Thor scowled at him suspiciously. "I have been answering all the questions. Are you trying to distract me from our bargain? _You_ promised to tell_ me_ something."

Loki smiled, seeming very pleased with himself. "Very well, Odinson, I shall keep to our bargain. I came to be on Midgard by stowing away on a supply wagon traveling with my father's army. I am quite adept at hiding, you see."

"But why would you do that?" Thor asked, perplexed. "Why did you want to go to Midgard at all? You are too young to fight yet."

"I agreed to answer one question for one story, if you recall," Loki smirked. "It is not my fault that you chose to ask 'how' instead of 'why.'"

Thor exhaled in an angry huff. The Jotun had tricked him, twisted the outcome on a technicality, on semantics. This short, enigmatic answer was all he would receive for reading that long story. _That is what I get for trusting the word of a Frost Giant_, he thought bitterly. _They never play fair_.

"If you wish for another answer, I am willing to give it," Loki continued, "_if_ you read me another story."

* * *

*******Author's Note**: I apologize for the Beowulf references. Yes, that's what Thor was reading to him. I couldn't resist, since the first Thor movie gives Loki's birth date as sometime in the 900s A.D., which is around about the time the poem was written down. Would an Asgardian library have literature from Midgard? Er...I have no idea. I guess the Aesir like it when the mortals imitate their own forms of literature and art, imitation being the sincerest form of flattery (those cute little mortals trying to be like Asgard, isn't it so adorable?). That's my explanation anyway, haha.

So...Thor and Loki's relationship seems to be off to a bumpy start so far. But Rome wasn't built in a day, right? I hope the beginning part wasn't too confusing; I promise I will explain Loki's recurring nightmares when the time is right.

Please note that child-Thor's idea of how Sif would behave upon his death does not necessarily reflect the opinion of the author. ;)

Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think, what I can improve, etc.


	5. Chapter 5

****Author's Note:** Sorry it's been a while since I've updated. But hey, here's some Frigga at last! I'm not 100% satisfied with this chapter but...eh...it will have to do for now because we need us some ladies in this story. As always, I would like to know what you think. Any suggestions for improvement are welcome. Thanks for reading!

You might have noticed that I've got a cover picture now. My wonderful awesome friend Rachel made it. If you want to see a bigger version, it's right here: paangsofloveDOTtumblrDOTcom/post/84398455658/. Except obviously replace "dot" with actual dots. Because this website doesn't like external links.

* * *

In the women's quarters of the palace, it would be difficult to believe that the realms were at war. Servants were presently clearing away luncheon from the queen's sitting room. The guests, three noblewomen of Alfheim, had departed by now. A purely social visit, ostensibly—yet with foreign dignitaries, pleasantries and gossip were always significant, a microcosm of relations between kingdoms. Today, Frigga could assure her husband of Alfheim's continued loyalty, and erase the doubts that had crept in with the news of the dwarves' underhanded rebellion.

Now alone, she sighed, letting her careful smile fall away to reveal the anxious wrinkles in her forehead. She needed to keep her hands busy as she reflected, so she sat down at her weaving loom and started to work. The task wasn't entirely mindless, but the familiarity was always soothing.

Outside this room, she could not afford to show any weakness. For order to be restored in the Nine Realms, Asgard could not have a single crack in its armor, and that included the mental stability of its king and queen.

Yet she fretted for her husband, who despite his strength and wisdom was not invincible: the same fear she had had when Odin and Laufey had battled before, when Thor had been a mere toddler. The same fear she knew she would have someday when her boy became a man, and left home in search of adventure. The same fear that thousands of wives and mothers were experiencing at this very moment right along with her.

Suddenly the door burst open.

Frigga raised her eyebrows at the unexpected visitor. "I believe it is customary to knock before entering someone's room, Lady Sif," she said mildly. "Surely your mother has taught you better manners than that."

The child who had rushed in out of breath bowed her head and curtsied awkwardly. "Sorry, My Lady."

What manners Sif had, she reserved for Frigga.

"What brings you here, Lady Sif?"

"Do you know where Thor is, Your Majesty?" Sif asked, advancing into the room and searching with her eyes. "We cannot find him anywhere."

"You know full well that he is not allowed to play outside with you today," said Frigga. "I think he will survive a few more hours in the library."

Sif groaned. "But Hogun has already searched the library, and did not find him there!"

"Then perhaps he is in his room."

"Fandral already looked there."

"Well, I do not know, dear," Frigga sighed. She might have worried that Thor had snuck out of the palace somehow, if his determination had been coupled with a little more cunning—but as it was, her son, Norns bless him, was anything but subtle. "He could be in the armory, I suppose."

Sif's eyes brightened. "Thank you, Your Highness, I did not think of that!"

Before she could rush from the chamber as noisily as she had entered, Frigga clasped her gently by the wrist.

"What would your mother say if she saw you dressed like that again, Lady Sif?"

Sif was wearing a boy's tunic: it looked suspiciously like an old one that Thor had outgrown. A wooden sword hung from her belt. Scowling, she complained, "It is too difficult to run in dresses."

"Yes, I rather think that is the idea," Frigga chuckled. "Your mother has made it perfectly clear that she wants you to behave in a more ladylike fashion." She phrased this carefully, leaving out her own opinions; it was not her place to interfere in the way Lady Brynja raised her daughter.

"I do not wish to be a _lady_," said Sif, pronouncing the word with disgust. "Ladies cannot do anything useful."

"Oh, can we not?" Frigga remarked, raising her eyebrows in feigned offense.

Embarrassment crossed the girl's face. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, I did not mean—"

"I know, Lady Sif," the queen said, taking Sif's small hands in her own. "But perhaps someday you will see that a lady's work is every bit as important, even if it is not as visible."

Ordinarily, Sif seemed to enjoy vexing authority, but she displayed more respect for the queen, due to the rapport between them. Though her brow was furrowed in frustration, she merely looked at the floor.

"But I want to be a warrior and fight battles," Sif insisted.

Frigga wished she could explain that not all battles were won by swords—that words could be weapons, that tact and grace could be armor, that diplomacy could be a shield.

But something told her that, while this was all true for _her_, this was not to be Sif's path, no matter how Lady Brynja struggled to control her willful daughter. Sif was as hungry for adventure and heroism as any son of Asgard—every bit as fearless and reckless as Thor—and would seek out glory someday whether she received permission or not.

_If only her mother would encourage the child she has, instead of trying to shape her into the image of the child she wants_, Frigga thought with a pang.

Instead of giving voice to these thoughts, Frigga smiled conspiratorially.

"I will tell you a secret, Lady Sif. Kings may win most wars, but it is usually the queens who prevent them."

This, at least, managed to coax a smile from the girl. "But I will not be a queen like you, My Lady. Would I not have to marry a king?"

Frigga hid her smirk. "Yes, I suppose you would."

Sif shuddered, to Frigga's amusement—she was still at the age when the thought of kissing a boy was disgusting, though playing knights-and-dragons with them was a different matter.

"May I go now?" Sif asked, bouncing impatiently.

"First let me tie your hair back," said Frigga, beckoning her over. When the child grimaced, she added, "So that it does not get in your face while you are running."

Evidently this reasoning placated Sif, as she came and sat beside Frigga, though she fidgeted in place as the queen combed through her tangles. Frigga felt slightly guilty for her motivation in keeping Sif close just a little longer—in truth, she missed having a child depend on her, stay close to her.

As dearly as she loved Thor, he was an autonomous child and always had been; even as a tot he would rarely sit on her lap, but preferred to crawl around on his own. He had preferred to suffer through scrapes and bruises rather than allow his mother to prevent him from falling.

_He is more his father's son_, she thought, and this gave her no small amount of pride—but also a little sadness. True to her tenets, she would never try to restrain Thor against his nature. He would be a valiant warrior someday, just like his father. But this meant that, now that her son was too old to be coddled and preferred independence, he felt he did not need his mother anymore.

_It happens with all children_, she reminded herself, _especially at this age_.

As if to punctuate this point, Sif wriggled out of her grasp the instant her fine hair was tied back into a braid.

She tried not to grieve that there would be no more children, because Thor was more than enough, he was the sun and stars to her, a part of herself, her flesh and blood, but she could not help but wonder, if Balder had lived—

_Why am I thinking of Balder?_ She tried to shake the memory away. Surely the present was pressing enough to demand her attention away from a miscarriage that had happened years ago. _I am only reminded of him because of the war_, she told herself firmly. Yes, that was it. The memories were coming to the forefront because she had lost her second child during the First Jotun War. She had never told Thor that he could have had a brother.

Thor was not a lonely child. He made friends easily, and passed most of his days in their company. Yet Frigga regretted that he was an only child, for he was, admittedly, spoiled and without much responsibility, since he had no siblings with whom to share the attention. _If his younger brother had lived to be born, how different would things be?_ she wondered. _Would he still sit by my side and listen to my stories, which Thor claims to have outgrown? Would he tag along with his brother on adventures when he was grown? Would I feel relief, knowing my boys would keep each other safe?_

"Thank you, My Lady," Sif said, bowing her head and rushing to the door to resume the search for her friend. "You will not tell my mother, will you? About—"

"Just be sure to put your gown back on before you go home tonight, and she will be none the wiser," Frigga assured her, and the child grinned.

Sif hovered in the doorway for a moment. "My lady, the All-Father has just come back from the front. Has there…has there been any news of my father?"

Frigga bit her lip as she studied the girl's cautiously eager face. Sif's father Geir was a high-ranking commander currently stationed on Midgard.

"No, Sif, I am afraid I have heard very little from the All-Father since his return," she confessed. "But I am certain if anything were amiss, you would already know."

Sif's eyes dimmed in disappointment as she shut the door glumly behind her.

Her question had reawakened another concern in Frigga: she had barely seen Odin since the day he had come home, and seemed unduly preoccupied. He did not like to be disturbed when strategizing, but she needed to ensure that all was well, and reporting on her meeting with Alfheim's emissaries seemed as good a pretext as any.

Odin must have agreed, for her allowed her to enter the study, and complied when she asked to see him alone.

He barely glanced up at her over his map of Midgard. He was moving miniature ensigns around, presumably representing legions, and muttering under his breath, frowning deeply. Frigga's heart sank upon seeing the deep shadows under his eyes. The luncheon tray beside him was untouched.

"What news from Alfheim?" he said curtly.

Instead of replying, she walked around behind him to place her hands on his shoulders and survey the map from his perspective. The cities marked with Laufey's sigil seemed erratically distributed to her, but then, she did not claim to be an expert in battle tactics.

"You did not come to bed last night," she chided him. "Have you even slept since your homecoming? And I do not include dozing in your chair for a few minutes."

He snorted. "Always the mother hen," he said under his breath. "I am a grown man, Frigga, I do not need to be watched over like a child."

"I would agree with you, if you were to take better care of yourself _without_ my henpecking."

His lips twitched, but his face quickly darkened again. "My men are dying in the name of Asgard every moment," he said quietly. "Their king should not surround himself in luxury in the meantime. There is too much work to be done."

She sighed and bent down to kiss his temple. In happier times, she would have retorted, _Neglecting to care for yourself does not make you more of a man_. But her husband was too weary for their usual playful teasing, and her stomach was tying itself in knots over him.

"Asgard needs her king hale and strong, to protect her," she said. "That is your responsibility right now. Your mind will not be at its best if you deprive it of sleep and food."

Odin placed a hand over hers, allowing himself a moment to appreciate her comfort.

"You need not fear so much for me, my love," he murmured, finally turning around to look at her. "It is not the first time I have gone to war. I always come back to you in one piece, do I not?"

"Not always," she said sadly, regarding his eye patch. Her anxiety was far greater whenever he was fighting against Laufey, because the latter seemed so personally vicious—even if the king of Jotunheim had to lose, he would not mind as long as the All-Father was destroyed along with him.

He smiled bitterly, seeming to understand what she meant. His gaze turned back to the map.

"Perhaps I do need rest," he admitted, "for none of this seems to make any sense at the moment. Laufey is receiving weapons—possibly other supplies as well—from the dwarves, but in return for what? I cannot fathom. So far he has been capturing numerous small cities and villages, but instead of holding them as we lay siege, most of the troops retreat elsewhere before we even arrive. Why?"

"Evasive maneuvers. They do not have the numbers to stand against you."

"Yes, yes," he said absently. "It seems as if Laufey is stalling for time, which unsettles me. I would feel more at ease if I could simply quash the invasion as quickly and simply as the first, but I cannot do so while having to chase Laufey's troops all across the continent. And I hesitate to bring any massive weapons into play, when it would incur so much damage on a lesser realm which I have sworn to protect—"

"Odin," Frigga interrupted softly, tightening her grip on his shoulders, "this is what he wants. Laufey knows he has not the numbers to defeat you, and he toying with your mind instead. _You must not let him_. You are stronger than he. You would never allow vengeance to carry you this far away from protecting your people."

They were silent for a moment, hands clasped as though each hoped to pass some of their strength to the other.

Finally, Frigga straightened up and said briskly, "Do you promise me you will eat something, at least?"

"Yes, my queen," he smirked.

"Good."

"Where are you off to?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I had better find your son, before he gets into any mischief," she sighed. "His friends cannot seem to find him."

"I do not think there is any need. A boy his age tends to get into trouble, but he can hardly be in any danger. We cannot control him forever, my love, he's a little whirlwind and he needs freedom."

"Yes, but he seems in a habit lately of going places he should not," Frigga said darkly. "Speaking of which, is it true that Laufey's own son has been captured?"

"It is."

"Has he told you anything of use?"

"Not yet, but I have hopes that he will," Odin said. "He does not seem entirely uncooperative."

Privately, she was somewhat surprised by this; she would have expected a soldier and prince—especially from such a severe culture—to prefer death and pain over informing the enemy.

"I trust you _did _reinforce our ties with Alfheim?" Odin asked. "That was, in theory, your purpose in visiting me, was it not?"

"Of course, my king," she assured him. "You need not fear losing Lord Freyr's allegiance. I merely reminded his sister, tactfully, who placed him on his throne in the first place."

He nodded, satisfied.

"Eat something," she said, glaring at him. "And if I do not see you in our chambers by nightfall, I shall return and drag you there myself."

"Such fierce threats from such a gentle lady," he remarked, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise.

"Do not test me, Odin."

She could hear him chuckling reluctantly as she left the room.


End file.
